Bitchings at Birkbeck (No you can't have a razor)
by EsotericVanity
Summary: AP student, Sherlock Holmes attempts to find solace in his admittedly less than welcoming surroundings, fully accepting of earning the University's hatred in the span of a week. But it all changes when a certain belated pretty-boy rugby athlete comes into play.
1. Can't Touch This

It feels so good to deny. To deny what they hold so dear. What they yearn to control, to stifle. He's no masochist, he'd just rather die screaming while conformity implodes in itself before his obstinacy, he swears, a mocking titter duly repressed behind his cigarette and sharp angles. They want to control him, his speed, his brilliance, his body, his experience, all of him. Just beyond their boredom-induced, razor-filed fingertips, manicured to pitiful perfection. He's no stranger to the hungry glint in their sagging eyes. Something about his appearance must scream "White-collar me!" given the way their eyes brighten the second he enters the room.

They just wait. Waiting to dig into his dark suit, it must reek of potential, to keep him there. Work him till they see bone, then turn a blind eye and keep working him anyway, maybe work him harder—put the guy out of his misery for god's sake. Dull-eyed and young. _Such a shame_ , they would say when he'd spiral into depression—debt circling him like vultures, marriage failed, and shoulder-biters bitter, _he was such a hard worker._

But he's insane, you see? He's a machine, constantly working. Working till he sees red, till his head aches, till he likes it. For _him_ and _him only_ , he can't stop if he wants to. Perhaps that's why he refuses to share, handing over something so valuable and seemingly limitless to greedy hands—they could wring him dry, maybe. If they squeezed him at just the right angle, holding him there with a stiff, light shake before he could throw in the towel. He knows how they wish to commandeer his gears, trying rearrange technology so advanced it would make their little permed and bald heads spin right off. It's comical and almost makes him want to try. There's another catch though, no one can. Statistic and probability concepts dictate they never will. Not even him.

Regardless of their fantasies, it's entertaining to taunt them and see their sweet-sixty faces flush rosy red at his, offensive and immoral at times, flee. And why? Ah, right. They wish to condemn him to the life they'd sold their life to. It's only fair he supposed, attempting to create a brief persona weaved with their coding and psychology.

It imploded intermediately. Damn it _. Yes, only fair_ , they'd agree, skin a crinkly paper and limbs weak as they reverently leafed through 72's yearbook, remembering _the fucking line_ at the office to publish their prides, joys, and hellions on an unpleasantly stuffy summers day. Crushing regret for missing a shot at something more underneath their overworked, bony thumbs like the pest it is. And inevitably was.

He wants to soar, scoffing at the very prospect all the while. Leap off Lady Liberty, crash headfirst into the Thames, feel the wind bite his nose and flick his hair, and do it all again. Until he can't take the fall anymore. Not as if he expects to get _that_ far. Fully expecting to leave an unrecognizable, spongy cadaver floating below London's Tower Bridge at 33. Mycroft would choke to death during the reading of his will, poor Mycroft had always been a stress-eater—he'd put a great deal of thought into it after all, would be a shame if they interrupted it mid-clever, Putin and smuggled Sugar Daddy candy and Donald Trump reference. America deserved a proper farewell too.

Indulgent self-destruction. Absurdism. Insanity. What a waste. And that's all it is. Living and being alive appear to be two different things in the eyes of realist and a sociopath. Who knew? He does—surprise, surprise- and he intends to make the most of his next seventeen years. And not by giving in to getting takeout or fucking a perfect stranger whenever he feels particularly aware of how dead he is inside. Nor everyday. Twats.

Escaping the norm is merely a small victory, rather effortless on his part—practically handed to him on a silver platter, and when he refused said platter, it was slammed in his face. Hairline maxilla fractures were a dream-a blurry peer through swollen eyelids. It will never be enough, he doesn't what it _is_ but he wants to. To try. Is it worth it? If so then why? Probably isn't but why ever not? So he'll claw his way up, painful, smooth and slow at times. Or rushed, aimlessly excited and vaguely desperate at others. He'll make a tower. He'll build off of their Huggies stepping stool and make Empire State building architects cry at its sheer, palpable being.

Just for kicks. Make them ache for it. A small part of him will revel in being better (more so than usual he rationalizes), anything less would be unacceptable. He doesn't know why that is and he knows why quite well.

Yet here he is, stuck in Uni, promptly going to _waste away_ for four years and quite possibly contract stupidity—the disease is relatively rare in his blood line but he's taking no chances- all because he's not capable of making _realistic_ decisions. So here he lies, in his dorm room shower and counting Aspergillus mold spots (Aspergillius, causation of many a sever lung infection, he muses bitterly, inhaling another lungful of soothing poison and tilting his nose to the ceiling) on the tiny, yellowing ceiling—no longer the pristine white the university prided its students for being akin to in colour—and determining how long it'll have to fester until maintenance gives a shit and cleans it after his pretty-boy rugby roommate alerts them of the health hazard.

Faux-concern or adamant, self-inflicted conditioning into the good little doctor he's going to be, must be hard. John would probably attempt to condescend him for their age difference (it wasn't his fault he ranked at AP, not completely), under the guise of him still being his elder—maybe out of jealously-making the reality of his situation all that much worse. Telling from the classes listed for his roommate's in the Birkbeck's online records, John was above average, but painfully average all the same. Blond, bright-eyed and cookie-eating, dream-shitting grin. He wondered for a moment, as his eyes phantom-stung at the memory of the pearly whites glaring back at him. Would John's smile remain vivid when he received his diploma onstage, in spite of a bullet to the leg or knife to the shoulder. How ecstatic would he be? Ecstatic enough to be numb, that happened right? Going into shock? Like fainting girlfriends at proposals.

A true minor-mediocre prodigy if he ever knew one, a boy you could pin your hopes on no doubt. No longer a Captain America-idolizing thumb-sucker missing their two front teeth, but now an appallingly righteous, modern version with less blue-spandex. He sniffed at the thought, smelling sulfur, nicotine and artificial lemon cleaner and crossed his legs. He's still going to get punched in the face. No one can resist. Can't wait, maybe he'll get his own dorm. He could piss any possible and upcoming roommates off and get beaten until the headmaster gives up and leaves him be. He'd take the basement. Or he could pretend they're dead and keep his strangely attractive face intact. Plus, the bathroom and closet weren't a bad touch…

Whatever, point being Birkbeck really needed a better firewall. Preferably one they hadn't just downloaded and ceased customizing to their system out of sloth. Maybe they were just modest. He wouldn't blame them for assuming no one wanted to hack their steadily thickening cesspool of mediocre maggots. Still, to care was just principle. And just might keep out amateurs. Might. McAfee was shit at times, honestly. He had his secrets, all right? Myc, the dear, refused to warp his records to his liking and he's not even one to boast, he'd even said please. He never says please.

Sherlock shifts his crossed arms cradling his head—stained, greying, penny-sized, square tiles scraping his elbows, the skin indented, red and raw from the elongated pressure, and hisses out wasted carbon dioxide mingled with smoke from between his teeth, the soft sound ringing shrill like a stifled train engine to his ears and his ears only.

Neat.

The first time he meets John, he's officially sure that his roommate has either dropped out last minute, been delayed by a family issue or something or other, or croaked. He happy dances, and almost considers using the other half of the room now, suddenly having someone burst in on his methodic madness would be embarrassing. So Sherlock has taken the liberty of keeping John's side pure of his organized chaos.

Having second thoughts though… it would take a while to assign another student to his room, courtesy of Mycroft's controlling nature and need to snoop…plus, Sherlock needed somewhere to put his paraphernalia on heterogeneous mixtures. Anderson was being astoundingly obnoxious as of recent and he had a little plan for his Twix bar next lunch period.

So you can imagine his surprise when he's tapped on the shoulder, after class hours no less, and the world having previously fallen on deaf ears from the earplugs he'd dug into his canals. The Hearse song's intro was beginning to leak through.

Haha, 'leak'.

Sherlock plucks a fuchsia pink earplug from his ear—tolerating the bright color had been a sacrifice on his part, Philip was the most resilient brand on the market right now-, the other remaining in, and continues staring down at his dorm-work, reluctant form still seated on the hardwood floor, the papery mess spread around him enough to make any tree-lover cry. How had John managed to reach his shoulder without rustling a paper? Moreover, John isn't worth both plugs being removed at the moment. Or ever. Sherlock was just going to pretend he was dead for the rest of his stay. Earplugs would assist this endeavor tremendously.

Sherlock hums in question—might as well get introductions over with-, still scrawling up tedious trig. Yes ABC is a right angle at A, yes ABD and ABC apply to Pythagora's theorem, yes he's Birkbeck's mathematical whore for the next four years. What does he get? X equating AC and AD and a triangle so aesthetically displeasing it makes his skin crawl.

"Uh, hi." John begins, sounding put off by his immediate disregard. And stay off, would you? "My name's John."

"I know." Sherlock replies, the instinctual urge to spill John's indubitably slimy guts out to him rearing its head. He wants to smack himself for a moment, because that's the _last_ thing he wants to do. But instead of indulging in masochism and risking seeming any stranger, he settles for scratching the back of his head with his pencil. "Uh, I mean I read your file." He assures John quickly, still staring down. "McAfee is pitiful, honestly." Sherlock adds with a mumble, feeling the tips of his ears burn.

He could also feel John's raised brow burn into the back of his University sweater, the black logo emblazoning the front a stark contrast to the soft, grey cotton. He hated bright colors, it was no shock that he nearly gagged at the neon all Birkbeck students wore (probably to avoid getting hit by fellow drunken students, bud-light in one hand, steering wheel in the other, then tragedy on your resume). _The colours burned his peripherals_ \- so it was a joy to find this one, he'd had enough of patrol questioning his residency due to his younger age. Sherlock bought five. Now, if only John would _stop trying to singe holes into it with his eyes._

"You hacked the schools firewall to read my file?" John didn't sound weirded out, just vaguely surprised.

It wouldn't last. Shit. Think fast. How do you _not_ piss off a seemingly decent person, of whom is going to share the same 5 feet of space with you for the entirety of the next four years?

"Obviously, how else?" Flawless. Just the right tint of fuck-off and he's going to die by next month, can't wait.

"Stalking?" John prompts, seeming amused at his rhetorical act. What the—

"Much too busy. Try again." –hell?

"Psychic?" John asks again, the sound of a suitcase hitting the bare mattress makes a thump. And for a moment, Sherlock considers punching John for his reply, getting himself expelled instead, that's actually not an awful idea.

In lieu of getting his scrawny form retaliated against or bloodied, he answers, "Something like that." Still not worth the expulsion. And what would a few diplomas hurt? He's not a coward, he has common sense. And provoking an athlete in his willowy three-days-awake-and-going-down state would be plain cruel.

A disbelieving scoff. "Oh, as if." Just the right amount of cynicism and sass. Sherlock suddenly wants to kiss him. Mindless of how John's suitcase zipper freezes mid-journey from its twin in alarm at his own comment. But Sherlock just removes his other earphone. Edith Piaf wasn't helping the urge.

Sherlock feels an unfamiliar smirk twitch his features. "Good to know." He murmurs and scratches out another answer with the lotto pencil he stole from Lestrade's pencil-cup.

"I don't believe I caught your name." John pipes up after a while. Having finished unpacking, all set and ready to suffer the next 1,460 days and get maudlin and pissed at how the miniature family-portraits on his desktop keep blurring before his teary eyes, or maybe it would be myopia, were his eyes falling out? John soon wouldn't know, aspiring doctor or not.

Sherlock clears his throat quietly and swallows, after trying to answer and making a rather squeaky, emasculating sound instead. "The name's _Sherlock_." He announces mockingly grand and shimmies his suddenly-air-born hands in the air at the title, feeling rather foolish at his failed attempt at slang, then snaps his hands down. Because he did not do _jazz hands_ he was a _Holmes_.

"Pleased to make your acquaintance." He subsequently smoothens politely, calling back on his inner-clinical. "I look forward to our rooming this year."

It wasn't an utter lie either, and wasn't that a surprise. But not an entirely unpleasant one. Still not taking the chance. Hopefully he wouldn't see John too often due to their schedules, they could keep this mutual I-don't-hate-you vibe going. 'Ignorance is bliss' rings true in some cases. Even if Sherlock loathes the saying, he'd learn to live by it for this one thing. Mycroft had handled this situation well enough. His overbearing nature had its perks. All he had to do was play dead.

He hears John smother a small cough. "Ah, likewise?" John agrees hesitantly. Sherlock mustn't of sounded as accommodating as he first thought. "How old are you anyways?"

Sherlock blew out a breath, making his bangs float. "Do I really look that young? You haven't even seen my face." And why would John suddenly care for his specifics? Especially something so random? He hadn't even gotten a good look at Sherlock's face, nor Sherlock of him—save for his file. Ah, could he have been told of Sherlock's attitude prior to-

A nervous chuckle. "No reason—"

"The headmaster." Grain, the sod.

"How did you—"

Sherlock waves away the short-lived question like the pest it is, and inevitably will be. "Obvious, he's been an overbearing father-hen ever since his divorce to compensate for the separation of his child. Tragic, he would've done swell with the skills he possesses, swell for _his infant_. Don't mind him." Lestrade wouldn't need to mind John either.

Finally completing three pages of pointless preliminary tests to evaluate his Advanced Placement being a right lie or not, he flips the red, scrawl-covered binder shut with a satisfying snap, they'd later appoint him ahead of any and all students accompanying him to his lectures. No, 'Ignoring him to his lectures' fits the bill better. Sherlock turns around, uncurling his legs from their Indian position as he goes, and bends his knees up so his elbows can rest on them.

Oh, his back aches from the crouched position he'd held it in for hours. Sherlock groans and rubs at it, finally looking up at John in the real.

John smiles and it doesn't make his eyes hurt. "Hello."

Clean shaven, showered, hair sprayed down, not gelled. Good, two gays in a room didn't look too good. (Not that Sherlock looked gay or anything of the sort, absurd.) Planned on arriving today, wasn't in a rush for his stress lines were nonexistent and his posture relaxed. Pressed button-down and blue, woolen jumper washed with softener three days or so prior to his arrival, not a speck of lint. So, planned outfit and cleaned shoes, clearly looking forward to his enrollment after managing to get in. Had he not seen his report cards explicitly stating him above average? Of course he'd get in, the dumbass. John appears more mature than most, his patience speaks volumes, he even wears a belt. Smells of colon strong enough to make him want to dig his face into John's fuzzy midsection. Sodding Chanel, it always got him. Also smells of tea and bread, perhaps he'd paid his mother a farewell and had lunch, would explain his delayed arrival today. Lipstick smudge on the bottom left corner of his sweater where John had wiped a kiss off his cheek with the material implied as much. Couldn't be a girlfriend, not a picture or memoir of her in sight.

Sherlock frowns up at him in confusion. "I believe we've already done this."

John just nods, smile still in place and sits down on his quilted cot, the striped, sky-blue and indigo blanket having been knitted by hand, not methodical, prim machine. His jumper wasn't hand-knit either. Perhaps the jumper John now wore had acted as a clone of the gift his mother made for him, she could have told him she wanted him to wear it on his first day. And John, with his burly rugby hands, had managed to ruin the sentimental gift. He'd need to work on steadying them for his aspired profession. Perhaps rugby wasn't the stupidest of hobbies, a steady grip was essential. Undoubtedly helping him keep his cool when the adrenaline hit.

John shrugged and wringed his fingers, the callouses typical of his preferred sport, must've gotten the ball quite often in high-school. But they hadn't faded, practices with his friends on weekends? Did they join the same university too? "What's the harm in one more time?" _Waste of time_ , Sherlock wants to drone, but holds his tongue. "You never told me your age though."

"5,840 days, 8 months and 19 days."

John squints at the answer, then purses his lips _. Yeah, think harder._ Sherlock inwardly jeers.

Then a smirk, John's eyebrows rise in pleasant surprise.

Error 402. Sherlock had just blatantly condescended him and watched in silence as he looked terribly confused. Mercilessly. And John wasn't even a tad annoyed?

John spoke a split-second later. "Your seventeenth birthday's in three days then."

Sherlock immediately felt himself brighten. Not because he'd be officially one year closer to his demise, but because John could do simple math! Some cynical part of him knew he shouldn't have been as excited by the revelation as he was. But the ability came with other admirable attributes. So, yeah. Perk.

"Correct, and might I just say how pleased I am at your calculation skills and their timeframe."

John just chuckles and toes off his loafers, "You wouldn't be the first." And lays back onto the cot, making the ancient bedframe creak beneath the pressure. Then closes his eyes, folding his arms beneath his head with a sigh.

Taking the unspoken hint, Sherlock leaves John to rest, and puts his headphones back in. Only after uncurling the flimsy rubber-coated wire from his curls. And cranks up Ludwig Van Beethoven's 5th Symphony in C Minor, for he was feeling particularly bold, and slips his arms through the hoodie that had previously been hanging off the peeling door's hinge. It must have fallen when John entered. Normally, he'd wear his beloved woolen trench-coat over one of his suits, but he held no ill-conceived notion of the surrounding area. In short, he isn't daft enough to prance around a lions den in a meat suit.

"Where're you headed?"

Sherlock blinks at the interruption, and pauses zipping up his hoodie. Still facing the door. "To see a man about a dog." Sherlock lightly shakes off his surprise and hauls his book-bag over his shoulder.

John hums in contemplation. "I could've _sworn_ animals weren't allowed at Birkbeck."

"They are, they're even given their own dorms." _You appear to be decent though_. He observes but doesn't add. And closes the door behind him, muting John's quiet laughter.

Now, off to break into the library. He needed the 10th edition of Art Through The Ages, an electric pencil sharpener, and a snickers bar. Because _he's not him when he's starving to death._


	2. Google, Lesbians and Monkeybars

He's crouched over his textbook, memorizing the time period in which a veristic imagine of marble mimicking some Roman politician from Otricoli had been sculpted. When _suddenly_ his self-proclaimed _bestfriend_ slams his textbook closed, nearly crushing his fingers. Thank god his reflexes remained sharp throughout sleep deprivation. He'd be dead by now.

Sherlock peers up, makes an offended 'mmph' over his snickers bar, and does a helpless sort of 'why' gesture. Sherlock hadn't even heard her coming—oh yeah headphones.

Irene just grins, ruby lips revealing sharp canines. Looking every bit the bitch she is. "How come I always find you hiding away like a little hermit?"

Sherlock takes a bite of his half-eaten chocolate bar and plucks out his earphones with a resigned sigh. His chances to get farther ahead in his studies growing dimmer with every breath the psychotic vixen took. "Has it not occurred to you that hermits are hermits for a reason?"

Adler hums and taps her pale chin. Then flicks a finger up, indicating she's found some ridiculous solution.

"I'll Google it."

Sherlock felt his eyes grow in size "Don't you dare—"

But she had already taken out her stupid IPhone, she'd won it in some inane giveaway on YouTube. It wasn't even a beauty giveaway, and she followed Bethany Mota. Her thumbs whip across the screen in practiced motion, not a typo in sight, Irene could even do it with her eyes closed. Sherlock had seen her.

"'Give me space and get out of my face!'" Irene says, grandly voicing the retarded motto some mediocre twat had probably conjured up over a blunt after their 'hermit' crush told them to fuck off. "That's the motto of a very common creature nowadays—the 'Urban Hermit'. They don't want to be bothered by others and their self-manifestations."

Sherlock clears his throat and looks up at her pointedly, she ignores him and continues. "'How did they get this way?'"

"Adler _would you please_ —"

" It all starts when they're first told they aren't _wuved_."

" _Irene, I'm serious—"_

 _"_ _And suddenly_ , they become the object of all their mother's ills and woes. All because of her unmet dependency needs and an accompanying violent resentment of her child for having any needs themselves." She finishes, heedless and mockingly distraught. " _Oh, baby."_ She starts sympathetically and reaches out to him. " _I'd make up for all those years of poisonous pedagogy, just give me a chance_."

"Does necrophilia arouse you?" He questions, because it's a sound one, leaning away from her red-tipped reach. "Because that's the only way I'd ever let you touch me, with a 900 foot pole."

Adler huffs in fake disappointment and sits across from him. "Yeah, yeah, I get it. You're as straight as your hair."

"Precisely." Sherlock breathes out, done. And flips his book back his last page. Lucky him, he'd learned to fold the corners after every page he turned, for reasons such as Irene Adler, in all her meddling, 18+ glory. One day he's sassing the professor for his appalling signature line ' _Just a theory.'_ , the next he's hunted down and stalked by The Woman, as the students had taken to calling her. If they didn't hate him then, they sure as hell did now.

"Why are you here?" He asks, despite already knowing why.

"I got a boyfriend."

Sherlock huffs a sudden laugh and flips to page 402. The Sanctuary of Hercules housed another hideous, unknown Roman General, marvelous. Was he nicknamed toothless in his day? "And London's falling. Why are you here?"

"Mary's out for the weekend," Irene affirms knowingly. "I thought I'd take advantage of the deserted hour and invite you over for The Big Bang Theory marathon." She finally comes clean and clicks her nail on the plastic folding table repetitively.

He freezes. "There's a marathon?"

"Affirmative." _This glorious bitch_.

Sherlock gathers his back pack, writing utensils and an electric sharpener for some reason, before he's even aware he's taken another breath. "Why didn't you inform me earlier?" He asks, just a tinge hysteric and all around irritated.

"Thought you knew, but here you were, blocking my path to boredom and sulking with a stick in your mouth. We all have our methods of compensation but isn't this taking it a little far?"

Ignoring the innuendo bashing his nonexistent sex life, he gently but urgently tugs her up by her underarms. Her signature, red bomber-jacket always making a point of matching her red lipstick, it felt like touching silk. Ugh, snob. "Come on." Sherlock needlessly coaxes her.

Irene rises and presses against him, his arm squished between her breasts as she steers them towards the girls ward. "Mmm," She purrs, the devil. "I like them rough."

"Oh, hush you." Sherlock feels his cheeks heat and quiets her, quickening their pace. He sniffs at the biting November air when they exit the library. Feeling his shoulders finally loosen and chest ease its aching at the company.

He reaches up to squeeze the hand on his arm in silent thanks, before thinking better of it. But she squeezes right back as he recoils, lowers it, and keeps it there.

 _"Wake up everybody. No more sleepin' in bed. No more backwards thinkin', time for thinkin' ahead."_

Sherlock wakes up with a groan, and his face smushed into a rather voluptuous pillow, and promptly snuggles closer. Set on staying here for the rest of his life. If only that incessant singing would cease.

Staying still, he dozily contemplates possible mechanisms of murdering John Legend without moving…until the pillow starts trembling with repressed laughter. "Comfy?"

A bullet would envy the speed at which he flew off the sofa.

Fantastic, now he'd bruised his right flank, well, more so than it had been to begin with. He slipped in the shower a few days ago, all thanks to Irish Green, which was strange. He hadn't even been _taking a shower yet_ , Sherlock hadn't even bought _soap_.

Ignoring the gradually awkwarding silence. _Awkwarding was not a word, get it together._ A voice sounding akin in tone to Mycroft's berated him. "How can you stand such infernal vocals?" He asks from his crestfallen position on the floor.

Irene props herself up on her elbows to look down at him, looking ridiculously attractive even though she's just woken up. The dawn shining rays through the dorm window and onto her features, accentuating her sharp cheekbones and making her blue irises glow.

Wait- _sunlight_?

"It's motivational." She defends, moronically lax.

"It's an _atrocity_." He corrects her, histrionic, and suddenly hopping on one leg as he attempts to slip his other one into his skinny jeans. He glares at the yowling alarm clock. 5: 23 am. Maybe if he rushed he could get back to his dorm before patrol performed their morning rounds and found him in exiting the girls ward. He couldn't afford another run-in with the headmaster, lest they call _his brother_ of all things.

" _Why didn't you wake me up_?" He shouts at her, voice a shrill whisper. He pulls his Uni sweatshirt over his head and pats it down his torso, taking in the mess of soda cans and Ben and Jerry's ice-cream boxes littering the floor and coffee table. He hadn't eaten in three days, so the sight wasn't too shocking. She always did pamper him.

"I was dreaming of snogging Beyonce." Irene sighs in contentment. "It was simply _obscene_."

Oh for god's sake. "Control your raging ovaries for the time being, would you? If I don't find a way to get back to the men's ward before six I'll be counting brother's back flabs while he defends my supposed _play-boy deviance."_

Irene nods grimly. "And my admirers would kill you."

"As would the entire university's occupancy."

"Same thing," She waves him off arrogantly and buries her head beneath her cream pastel pillow. "Now go away, Beyonce awaits me on the Eiffel Tower cloaked in bare moonlight."

" _I hope Napoleon shoots you both_." Sherlock hisses to the instantly silent bundle of Star Wars blankets and roughly tugs on his dark hoodie.

Okay, what now. Find a way. Find a way. Find a way. Window, dildo…oh lord, is that Mary's?-,pantry, dresser, vanity-AHA!

Sherlock blows out a breath and frowns at his reflection in the vanity mirror. The game is on.

Tugging his hood over his eyes after applying a shade of red lipstick dark enough to make hypochondriacs scream, and combing his messy locks over an eye. Sherlock blesses his lack of need to shave, and exits the dorm. Flipping off Irene as he goes to steady himself.

"Oh, good morning." A feminine voice greets behind him the very fucking instant he closes the door. He finds a new hatred for his baritone, one he never thought he'd have. Brilliant.

Sherlock clears his throat and recalls how frogs sound when you squeeze them. And answers with a highly pitched 'mhm', He speed-walks away, fighting the urge to scurry down the corridor and scream like a little girl. Or maybe that's _exactly_ what he needs to do.

He continues his mortifying trek, and is wholly unprepared for the girl deciding to follow him.

"Sherlock?" the little voice gasped.

What in the ever-loving Lucifer's son? He knew he had admirers but this was ludicrous. Made him shudder a bit, how closely had they watched him to be able to recognize him by half of his face, _with lipstick on_?

Sherlock just thinks about giggling infants unaware they're suffocating on helium as he speaks.

" _Non, c'est Shezza_." Sherlock tries at French, confused and shy. Nothing new here. And resolutely stares the other way. The field was visible now, hopefully he wouldn't have to jump the rail and book it over to his ward, just walk there like a sane human being and use hallways for their original purpose.

The girl doesn't sound impressed when she gives him a disbelieving 'uh huh'. He sees the girl silently beckon over the guard with her left hand out of the corner of his eye.

Blimey.

Gripping the rusted railing a foot from his right, he leaps over it—blessing his slight weight and Irene's residency on the bottom floor, and sprints across the mowed, spotty-grassed field.

"Over there! That's a bloke!" The girl shrieks behind him, accusatory squeak of a voice no longer sounding all that desirable.

A roughish voice soon follows, climbing over the rail and grunting from weight gained by ten too many frozen meals and Oprah shows. "Get back here you brat!"

Sherlock keeps up his sprint, feeling a bit like a gazelle, and jumps over a fallen tin garbage can. The paper-thin converse sneakers acting as nothing more than a sock to cushion the landing, and making his heels ache. No matter, he'd lose the guard in no time. Sherlock grinds to a halt, before propelling himself to the right and into a maze of wooden, creaky sheds housing sports equipment. All within five or more feet of each other. Perfect.

When Sherlock no longer hears panting or heavy footfalls behind him, he slows down to a jog. Thanking and damning the Adler line for creating Irene, if it weren't for her he'd have passed out from not eating after his sprint. Then again, if it weren't for her he also wouldn't have had to dress in drag to escape angry mousy girls and overweight, perverted guards. He squints at the memory, Adler could handle him.

Sherlock pants out a breath and leans his shoulder against a nearby rotting shed. Taking a moment to catch his breath, the frigid air felt like knives to inhale. He really needed to start jogging again.

Then a deep growl reverberates his core. Sherlock's eyes snap up, stomach sinking impossibly deeper by the nanosecond. Staying perfectly still, he backs away.

Barking sharing likeness to a lions roar echoes in his ears. And he suddenly remembers he'd left his earphones on Mary's vanity before he took his book-bag.

Today really wasn't his day.

Ripping open another shed-door to block the hell-hound the size of Cujo from reaching him, Sherlock scrambles down another worn, dirt path. Sherlock knew humans couldn't outrun dogs, much less a 260 pound behemoth at 30 miles per hour. And so he knocks over three more trash cans, the garbage reeking of students trying to get out of taking their garbage to the chute. Or maybe they were just too hungover to differentiate a garbage disposal and a fucking shed in the middle of a 20 acre field.

The hellion roars again, the sound deeper than any sound he remembers hearing.

 _Not the time_. He reprimands his deducing nature and dodges over an icy puddle, promptly hearing the dog whine behind him and slide into the opposing wooden structure to its left.

Sherlock runs faster, feeling his lungs tremble and shake with the exertion, and his windpipes drier than the Kalahari desert. All because of the approaching out-door gym. And _monkey bars_. He manages to grab a rotten stick, it having fallen off a nearby oak from the gelid weather, before climbing the metallic structure.

"Hey, you bloody mutt." Sherlock coos, waving the wooden stick in the air. The dog blinks.

"You want the shitty stick?" He asks, jiggling it for emphasis. "Dogs like shitty sticks, right?" The dog remains stoic, and growls lowly.

Giving it one more wave by Cujo's snout, he chucks it far with a shout. "Go get it!"

Cujo would have flipped him the bird if possible.

He bites back an _entirely irrational_ sob of frustration.

Sherlock is stuck on uncomfortable monkey bars, the metal digs into his arse, after a mangy dog chases him and gets angry. But he doesn't know animal control's phone number and he has no mobile data left to research it. He tries, he really does, he even attempts to connect to his own mobile hotspot. Calling the police would be illegal, Irene was dead and wouldn't answer him because she's dead (asleep, that woman wakes for no one.), and he had no one to blackmail into assisting him. Thus, dice-less, but he'd gotten a nice view of his painted lips in the screen's reflection during his search for a nonexistent assistant. And they had remained perfect. So perfect Sherlock couldn't remove the color without ripping his face off with his sleeve. Lipstain, the product falls nothing short of its title.

Oh yeah. John and his team should be here for morning practice soon. They would make for a decent distraction while he fled. So, for now, he leans against the steel bars and settles for telling Cujo his life story. Maybe his deductions could even piss off _dogs_.

12% of battery left. Three hours, and not a merciful soul in sight. He can't feel his bum and considers leaning it down to let Cujo bite it so he knows it's still there. Until.

"John!" Finally, a decent human being he hasn't pissed off yet. Everyone else who passed him earlier just ignored him, the bystander effect didn't even have an appropriate amount of bystanders to work. They all just loathed him. It was comical on some level.

His shout catches the figure's attention, as well as Cujo's, while the dog recommences his mangy-lingo assault. "John!" Sherlock waves, a bracing breeze nearly blowing him off the elementary contraption, and causing his numbing hands to grip the bars again. "Over here!"

He sees John cup his hands over his mouth. _"So that's the dog you were talking about?"_ He shouts back at Sherlock from the safety of the university railing at an enviable distance.

Sherlock frowns in confusion for a moment—oh.

 _"Where're you headed?"_

 _Sherlock blinks at the interruption, and pauses zipping up his hoodie. Still facing the door. "To see a man about a dog."_

Sherlock blinks dryly and shivers. "Oh."

Could John not see the urgency of the situation? He was going to die of hypothermia out here. Some doctor he was going to be. Sherlock sighs and glares back up at John's figure, which was located twelve or so yards away. John probably couldn't see his pitiful state from there anyways. Good.

"Oh Yeah!" He indulges the pathetic pun, it being physically impossible to keep his tone clear of any and all sarcasm. "I just wasn't counting on it being _rabid_ or _existent_! Be a dear and co-ontact animal control?!"

A thumbs up.

How reassuring. John slips open an ancient flip phone, ew. Good enough. And holds it up to his ear and speaks into it.

Not four minutes later, some imbecilic jock, who is most definitely _not_ animal control, waltzes into the gym.

"What the hell are you doing?! Get out of here!" Sherlock warns him, but his voice is now weak and breathy.

And the dog immediately launches towards the idiot to glomp him.

Sherlock squints disbelievingly at the hell-hound licking the man's face into next week, allowing his probable owner to leash him. His hands are still gripping the bars in a shaking, white-knuckled grasp. "W-What?" His teeth clatter as another breeze rocks his core, and he crouches low on the bars, his knees indefinitely bruising at his position. The man shouts something indecipherable to him, face crinkled apologetically, and turns away, his monster trailing behind obediently.

Sherlock doesn't move until the man walks Cujo out of the gate, watching them carefully all the while.

And still doesn't move. Sherlock sighs and lays his forehead against the cool metal, suddenly not wanting to move, maybe catch hypothermia, he'll pose as an example of corrupted school systems. His undoubtedly forever-frozen statue will act as a memoir for academic struggle everywhere—even if it didn't apply to him.

He could feel his heart slow down. _"About fucking time, put me out of my misery."_ Sherlock sibilantly pleads.

A finger pokes up at his shin from below the monkey bars. Sherlock _does not_ scream and looks down.

John appears to have managed to escape his sight. Most likely sneaking into the small park while he stared at Cujo's instant exorcism incredulously.

"Hey, easy, easy." John grins up at him through the bars sheepishly, brows furrowed in concern as he attempts to console him with hand gestures, as if he were a spooked animal. Sherlock wants to bark at him. "Need a hand?"

Sherlock squeezes his eyes closed as another gust wracks him with a bodily shiver, grip on the bars growing impossibly tighter, and exhales. He couldn't feel his hands at all, it's like his hands were merely keeping him grounded by muscle memory. And wasn't that a thought.

"Sherlock, come on." John finally coaxes him a bit firmer, hands coming up to grip his own dead ones clamping the bars. "You're gonna die out here."

Sherlock giggles down at him. The situation was just so ridiculous, even a sociopath had to laugh. Effectively deepening John's frown. Oh no. Couldn't have his roommate think him a loony. That wouldn't do well at all, the last thing he needed was another morally-obliged hen. He wasn't suicidal he just hated people in turn. There's a difference.

He sobers at the thought and slides his shivering legs over the edge, feet dangling off the side. Just in time to take a full blown blast to the back, the wind easily leaking through the fabric of his sweater and hoodie. "For g-god's sake." Sherlock hisses, freezing up again, hands numb but arms desperate to salvage any warmth by hunching in on himself. Jeez, if he moves will he crack?

Apparently, John would have none of it. And grips his shin _, getting touchy now are we_? Sherlock only ceases sniping due to his clattering jaw, unwilling to make any more of a fool out of himself than he already has. At least no one mentioned the lipstick. Oh Jesus Christ, he was still wearing _lipstick._ Unfortunately, his mortification did nothing to warm him.

The silence stretches, even as he can't hear anything over the wind whistling in his ears, and he opens his eyes to see John gone. And blinks at John's disappearance, feeling his chest begin to sink unpleasantly. _Strange_ , he inwardly muses with an outward, tired, little laugh _, the good little doctor seemed so concerned befor—_

The bars shake from sudden pressure, and Sherlock's hunched form is suddenly embraced from the side and under his knees. Startled, he turns left to see John's outstretched arms close around him before John scoots him onto his lap, "What the fu—", and then slides them off the ledge. Curling Sherlock into him bridal style mid-fall to keep him from hitting the pavement, and…lands.

Stock still in surprise, save for his transport's reaction to extreme cold, he turns to John. Probably looking every bit like the deer in headlights as he feels.

John just raises his brows at him smugly, rendering Sherlock vocal, and complements him. "Nice lipstick."

Sherlock lets out a sharp scoff and feels his cheeks burn. Serving to make John's grin widen. "Put me down this instant."

John complies with a sarcastic murmur of "So polite." And sets him down legs first, keeping a hand by his lower back when he stumbles.

Sherlock brushes himself off with still-trembling hands—how annoying, and retaliates with. "As is manhandling people off gym equipment." It was weak, but he was still a little surprised and just a bit dizzy from the change in position. Give him a break.

The world blurs a bit. And then he's leaning against the sturdy pole so conveniently placed beside him, he feels John's stupidly warm hand grip his bicep.

"How long have you been out here?" John asks, observing other 'busied' students scurry around with a confused frown. Oh, daft, little, newbie John. He had no idea of his incidental sparing.

Sherlock pats his wrist against his hoodie pocket to make sure he hadn't lost his phone, or something else god-awful managed to crawl in. "Can't tell, but last I checked, three hours had passed." He manages to cough out.

John sputters at the answer. "Why didn't you call anyone? Didn't you ask for help?"

"Don't be daft, of course I did." John looks incredulous for a moment, so he distracts him with. "I didn't know the number for animal control. And I'd have been arrested if I called the police department for something so ridiculous."

"You were in danger—" John shakes his head, still frowning at people passing as he lifts Sherlock's arm over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock says and stiffens at the contact. He wasn't exactly used to casual touching with strangers. Unless it's too quick to dodge.

John peers up at him at the question. (Huh, this was the first time he'd noticed their height difference. Funny.) Raises a brow, still seeming a bit miffed on Sherlock's behalf. The idiot, he'd just alienate himself. John's the type for status quo and social fluttering, was he not?

"Keeping you from falling on your pretty face." John blinks innocently. "What else?"

Sherlock twitches, and whips his head away to angrily swipe his sleeve over his mouth in seething rage. John's arm around his waist keeps him steady as they go.

"I'm not attending class until this comes off."

"Fair enough, I wouldn't either—ouch! …watch your feet."


	3. Fragile Hearts Encased In Thick Ribs

"You're a doctor, yes?" Sherlock asks him once he's leant against the wall by their dorm's front door. The abrupt question as strange as his complexion. It worked though.

John frowns at his shivering form, "Planning to be, wouldn't my stalker know?" then turns to unlock the door when Sherlock glares back at his concerned stare. Jesus, he just found the guy freezing to death on playground equipment, could you blame him for being a little careful? A question still gnawed at him though. How the hell had the entirety of the morning rush managed to turn a blind eye to a— _quite blatantly_ —dying student?

Sherlock speaks again, unaware of John's bristling, internal rant. "Do you think stupidity is contagious?"

What? John gives an aborted indignant huff, that immediately trails off to a small laugh. "Not that I'm aware, unless you're bashing mental retardation."

"Well, of course not." Sherlock defends, hands coming up to blow into his palms. " _They_ have an excuse."

"Do you?"

" _What_?" Sherlock snaps, affronted, eyes becoming slits over his hands.

Quickly realizing his dire mistake, John corrects it in a rush before he's killed by a hypothetical dagger to the head. "Do _you_ think stupidity is contagious?"

"Oh," Sherlock nods and rolls his eyes looking away, seemingly at himself. As if John would call _him_ a retard, the very thought must have been absurd. John rolls his eyes at the thought of Sherlock's probable thought.

"Yeah, although it's generally genetic or influenced." Sherlock hums for a second, then looks at John. "Like cancer."

John looks at him sideways, curving up his lips to seem politely intrigued, when in reality he begrudgingly finds the logic applicable to half the ward, and opens the door. Letting it swing open into the room.

"Is there a cure?" He asks, leaning over to steer Sherlock's shivering form into their room. John needed to take his temperature, right now. If Sherlock's temperature was beneath 95 degrees John would have to call an ambulance. That didn't appear to be the case though, Sherlock was gaining feeling back into his hands and the color back in his face. Now just sharing likeness with a sulking kitten caught in down-poor.

Sherlock brushes him off and moves to enter on his own. Stopping short to stumble and lean against the creaky doorway. He must have still been dizzy.

"Are you done?" John asks behind him, voice taking on an impatient sigh. Patience Watson, think of him as a patient. Patience for patients. He could tell, right now. That Sherlock would make for great practice in this area for the next four years. Great, he gets exclusive training. Well, if Sherlock even survives long enough. John purses his lips at the thought.

"Yes," Sherlock breathes, sounding irritated, and straightens. "There is a cure, taking fact at face value and evading biased status quo."

This guy was so stubborn, he could probably will a wall to talk to him. Seriously.

"Fascinating," John forces politeness. "I'm going to help you inside now. And then I'm taking your temperature."

"Orally, right?"

 _This brat_ … John closes his eyes, an irked grin twitching at his lips, and baring his teeth. John feels the back of his neck burn and hisses out " _Yes, orally_."

"Oh thank god, that just might've turned me straight." Sherlock murmurs too himself, before clenching the doorframe so hard his nails scratch into the wood, peeling off some of the white paint.

John feels his face go aflame at the admission, and lets out an entirely inappropriate bark of laughter, then a few more and hunches over a bit. Unseeing of the way Sherlock promptly stiffens like a metal rod and grips the doorway tightly, peering over his shoulder to eye him fearfully. "Ah, sorry." Nor how pain-stakingly slowly he loosens himself.

"Come on," He finally sobers, still a tad embarrassed and wanting to giggle. And leads Sherlock inside, noting the way he doesn't stiffen when John puts his arm around his waist this time around. "inside with you."

Sherlock just shakes a bit more, making John glance up. Seeing Sherlock turn his face away to hide his mortified grin, the trembling couldn't be played off as just cold. But now breathy, disbelieving giggles too.

He must have thought John would be some homophobic twat. Maybe even thinking John would do something about it.

Oh _Christ_.

John shakes off the urge to reassure Sherlock that 'gay is okay'. Just thinking of what Sherlock must have felt at his own accidental coming-out. Especially to his _own male roommate_. John mumbles a quiet sorry. Sitting Sherlock onto his quilted cot, as Sherlock's was covered in paraphernalia and petri dishes, he reaches under his bed—coming up with a small, red kit.

"Open up." John says, holding the glass thermometer to Sherlock's mouth. Repressing the urge to pry it against his trembling lips. Because that would be strange, especially after….yeah. John blames his transfixion on the strangeness of a boy wearing lipstick.

Sherlock just blinks and does, lifting his tongue to hold the thermometer's tip underneath the slimy appendage.

Salivation is a good sign. John notes, watching the action all the while, and only being knocked from his stupor by a beep.

96\. 1 F and rising.

He was fine, but " _Shit_." just barely. What would have happened if John hadn't had to take the long way around to get his medical textbook. Practice had been cancelled due to their coach's wedding and a substitute hadn't even been assigned.

How long would Sherlock have stayed out there until someone finally decided to pry his frozen corpse off the bars and deal with the consequences?

His outburst causes Sherlock to frown at him, crinkle of his brow looking a little too alarmed for John's liking.

"What is it?" Sherlock manages past his clattering jaw.

John closes his eyes momentarily to collect himself against the _entirely rational_ spike of anger, no matter how badly he wants to tell him _exactly what_. "You'll be fine mate, your temperature's above 95 and rising." He assures and squeezes Sherlock's knee. "Just need to warm up, okay?"

Sherlock eyes the assuring hand. "Sure."

"Great," John removes his hand at the stare and rises, looking around Sherlock's methodic madness. "Got a heater? We can't raise the temperature here."

"Landlords and their thermostats." Sherlock murmurs knowingly, cocking a brow into nothingness, seeming to briefly reminisce. What was he thinking? "No, I'll just do jumping jacks or something." Says Sherlock, rotating his forearm in 360 degree circles to assuage blood flow to his hands. John notes the method in curiosity.

"And-ah, thank you." Sherlock says after a moment, pointedly observing his stretching arms in front of him, clenching and unclenching his fists. "I appreciate not being left to freeze to death."

John laughs to cover up the bitterness rushing up his throat, wanting to spit it out like a child. He was no fool to his fellow male classmates behavior. Especially in the face of someone so…well. Sarcastic and cynical came to mind. But hell, this was Uni, we all were- that should've _helped him_ fit in.

He was so good at it too. Ah, was it because he was younger? Were they jealous? Surely they all couldn't be that petulant. Sherlock was just a kid too. Plus, John takes Sherlock in for a moment, he was quite a looker too. Fair complexion, high cheek bones…hair that had probably seen better days, not the buffest of body types. Sherlock must have had _a few_ admirers that would take pity on him. Then again, Sherlock was in the men's ward. Still though… guys are into that aren't they? Like a twink, except intimidatingly intelligent and vaguely terrifying...never mind.

Sherlock was looking at him expectantly. Whoops. "Anytime." John waves off, not voicing the obvious about the genius's own rather concerning situation-as the headmaster had referred to Sherlock as during their last meeting. Genius. He's not one to disagree with the hard-earned term as he observes the multitude of projects littering Sherlock's side, feeling a little proud. There was a method to the madness here, just have to look, he supposes. Observing a jar filled with formaldehyde and tiny white balls, the label reading: Rat eyes. Keeewl…?

Sniffing, John goes over to slip the blanket his mother knitted him over Sherlock's shoulders. The younger man looks up from massaging his socked, dead feet, before using a hand to pull it farther his shoulders. Interesting eyes too…was that a speck of violet? No. Blue?

"Indigo and violet, your mother has nice taste." Sherlock observes, worrying the material between his thumb and forefinger with care.

John nods at the complement, because yes, she does, and toes off his shoes. Because, no he's not leaving a student of whom has just had a near death experience for some wrinkly sod reiterating common term. John _was_ ahead after all, and replies. "Yeah, they're her favorite colors."

And drops down to the bed, making Sherlock bounce and dip from the sudden weight and bump into him. Only as Sherlock recoils does John notice the weirdness of the statement.

"Wait. How did you know my mother gave it to me?" John questions, leaning over in suspicion. He hadn't told Sherlock a lick about his personal life. How far did his hacking weave?

"Uhhh." Sherlock drawls for a second, curling away and nearly falling off the cot.

John sighs and catches him by the arm. "Well, Mr. Stalker?"

Sherlock exhales through his nose, looking weary and resigned.

Oh, god. John really had a stalker. He is minutely flattered before becoming alarmed, oh god. Did Sherlock arrange to have his victim roomed with him? He did say he hacked the school system. But John could handle him, Sherlock was harmless in his state—

"As if I'd need to _stalk_ you." Sherlock snorts vaguely, making John glare at him in confusion. "I know your mother made it for you due to the uneven pulls and knitting of the material. Not machine-like in the slightest." He informs a surprised John, spreading the wool beneath his thumbs as he crosses his legs, eyes flicking over the material's thick thread. "Each pull is executed with care. As if not wanting to pull the wool too tightly in places to make it larger, but thick enough to ensure it not catching onto your bare toes and fingers when pulling it over yourself during chilly nights. She must have been knitting for decades, with this level of finesse."

John feels his chest slowly warm, a new affection for the gift being elicited by Sherlock's clinical depiction.

Sherlock gives him a small grin, his inky curls shadowing his eyes from the yellow lamplight above. Serving to make him look just a bit less helpless. "So, how'd you ruin the sweater your mom wanted you to wear yesterday?"

John just squints at him, the confused grin spreading across his face beginning to ache, and shakes his head a little. "What the fuck?"

Sherlock stiffens and blinks, as if remembering himself. "No, forget it. I stuttered."

"You most definitely did not." John calls out the pitifully executed lie the second it finishes being pathetically executed. "get on with it, Mr. Psychic."

That does the trick. And he'll later remember this as the day he was suddenly thrust into deducing hell.

"Fine," Sherlock growls and shifts to face him in his Indian position, hands going down to grip his own ankles in a steadying grip. An icy glare bores into his own perplexed one. "But _you asked_ so _don't you dare deck me afterwards_."

John cocks a brow and looks him up and down, noting his defensive posture. "I'm sure I'll manage." He manages past the urge to tell Sherlock that he can't deck people because it would fuck with his temperament evaluation. Thus dirtying his spotless profile and later rendering him unemployed and forever alone.

Sherlock sniffles and wipes his sleeve under his red nose, the color similar to that of his mouth, and starts. "Divine."

Sherlock takes deep breath. John holds his. Finally a "It was a lucky guess, good day."

" _Oh, get back here_." John finally hisses in exasperation, catching Sherlock by the back of his hoodie and dragging him back onto the cot before he can sprint away. "You're starting to freak me out." John tells him honestly, hand gripping the front of the blanket around Sherlock's shoulders to keep him there, acting as some sort of leash. This was a little irking now. Was he living with an alien? A super spy with super gadgets from the future who enjoyed telling people random shit about their person and then torturing them by not telling them how they knew? Maybe his future wasn't as dull as he first thought. "If you don't come out with it right now, so help me god I'll _sit on you until you tell me."_

Groaning lowly, Sherlock keeps his gaze on his hands. "Fine." John still doesn't release him, just lowers his arm and keeps his hand there.

"You smelled of bread and tea upon your delayed arrival—"

"You _sniffed_ me?" John can't help but cut him off at the admission, feeling his mouth wobble. "I-I don't know what to say. Good Sherlock want a biscuit? -"

"Shut up and listen—"

"No wonder the dog chased you, he probably just wanted to share one—"

"That doesn't even—" Sherlock frowns and squints, waving his arms in a small, bewildered gesture as though waving away fumes of stupidity. "Moving _on_ , I'd assumed that you'd just returned from lunch with you mother, given the lipstick smudge where you had wiped off the affectionate mark on your cheek she left after her farewell out of embarrassment. Couldn't be a girlfriend's _lip stain_ —" Sherlock grimaces at the syllables for reasons bright, red, and well-known and bites his lower lip in ire. "-given the nonexistent pictures of her, you'd be much too affectionate with a girlfriend you allow to touch you so casually to not have any pictures of her. So it's your mother."

"Could be a sister."

"Not a sister either," Sherlock adds at John's imploring look. "She's much too busy to bother with a now-distant relative."

John raises his blond brows at him. Sherlock answers. "Caught wind of her missing face ripped from every photograph. Petty one, aren't you?"

Rolling his eyes, John asks again. "How did you know about the ruined sweater?"

Sherlock shrugs and hangs his feet off the edge of the bed, making John release him from his blankie-leash. "A guess mostly, I was bored and noticed that your mother knitted for you. Your sweater wasn't knitted and it was your first day here. She would probably preen at her university boy being all grown up, fleeing the nest, and would want her son to wear something she'd made for the very occasion. So you obviously fucked it up and replaced it to avoid upsetting her."

Sherlock slips the blanket off his shoulders and ambles away, no longer dying. Leaving a blinking John in his wake.

" _Sentiment._ " Sherlock accentuates with a gesture similar to that of a magician's, all for good cause too.

Wow. "That," John, still watching Sherlock's stiff back, nods in affirmation of his own admiration. "was totally _awesome_."

John generally tried to remain mature most of the time, it earned respect from his peers in his aspired field, but even he needed his moments. He was an impressionable 18 year old boy with hopes and dreams, and innocence. Porn hadn't corrupted him in _every_ sense of the word.

Sherlock halts his trek, it was almost physically painful to watch him go before, he looked so forlorn. But now he perks up and turns to John, looking surprised. Hesitant. "You really think so?"

John huffs and slumps, watching Sherlock in shock, a decent bit disbelieving too. Was this guy serious? He just told him…pretty much everything he did and didn't have going for himself at the moment. Just by _looking_ at him. …And sniffing him, which was fine, John didn't mind. It was flattering.

"It's hard not to. That really was amazing—should put it on youtube- I mean—" He smothers a giggle when a thought comes up. "And here I was, thinking you were checking me out."

Sherlock doesn't react, just bats his eyes, tilting his head a bit and says. "Yes, that's what most assume. The process can...send a lot of mixed signals."

"Turns out you were gay anyways, so I still win." John grins in triumph and pulls the blanket over himself, the material still warm from Sherlock's body heat.

A laugh, an embarrassed wave, "Oh piss off." and Sherlock's off and back to academia.

"Heads up!" Phil shouts after chucking over the intended-to-be-unexpected green and white rugby ball. They hadn't thrown him a ball the entire game, and it was gnawing at him. So, perhaps a little too eagerly, John catches the ball in his palms, the impact making a small 'skssh' against his palms. And dodges an unforeseen blur of black, white and blue. The object—person—not even registering in his mind before he makes his sharp evade. And propels down the soggy field, kicking up mud as he goes, the wet dirt splashes against the back of his legs. Rain pellets torrent his face and body and soak his green and white uniform. The freezing down-poor does absolutely _nothing_ to cool him down. His body seems to be evaporating the harsh liquid the second it comes in contact with his smoldering skin. It's as if he's his own breathing sauna, cleansing him from the inside out. It's intoxicating.

John finds himself marveling at his stamina every now and again. As he pushes himself to the very limit, to the very edge, to the promised land. Only to find he has to stop and turn back, but that he can keep going. He feels unstoppable. Not even the slurring sods on his new team can get him down. The adrenaline licks through his veins as ice allows a minute extinguish. Making for a dizzying blend. He's loose and sharp, everything in a focused haze.

He pants once more, seeing a white cloud waft to eye-level and beyond, and thinks it's actually fire.

A shock of pain flares in his left flank, and he's tasting dirt. There's panting above him before it's receding down the field. John groans and gets up immediately, not caring for sitting out any longer than necessary. He was fine anyways, he hadn't spent his last five years at Bellmore High diddling about. Muscle mass had its perks.

"And that's a wrap!" Coach Cockroach yells from his position on the sidelines and underneath the bench's steel awning. Fucker-Kyle must have reached the line. "Now get to the showers before my poor mother starts hacking in her grave, you all smell like crap!"

John sighs at his antics. Coach was definitely ex-military, lucky him. His name didn't exactly leave much to the imagination but he still had his head. And chucks the filthy ball into the nearby, wire cart. The ball becoming just a ball again, and rolling back to its twins. Leaving John with a warm, bodily ache. He sniffs, skin still steaming pleasantly, and lifts the bottom of his shirt up to wipe down his face.

The boys recede, trading macho-word and shove one another in rough companionship.

John waits. Finally alone, save for the muted thunder rumbling above. Tilts his head back, and breathes in deeply, as deep as possible, filling his lungs to the brim and feeling his right lobes expand in time with his left ones. Smells the occluding rain dewing freshly mowed grass. Hears the blood humming in his ears grow quieter and quieter as his pulse calms. Then opens his eyes, the light shower peppers his lashes with droplets, but never gets farther. Granting him the sight of a splotchy grey sky, clouds darkening in places and lighter in others, slowly shifting above and below each-other like mother nature's gears.

John finally exhales, the action slow and comfortable, and stares as the white mist drifts into nothingness, the surrounding drizzle dwindling his fire. He closes his eyes at the sight, and keeps his head lilted back, skull rested on the first knob of his thoracic vertebrae. Allowing his insides a cold, sharp spike and heart a constricting twinge. He allows both for reasons unknown, reasons unnecessary to know. To just feel for the hell of feeling. Thunder crashes once more, this time it's closer, louder, fiercer. Making John's eyes flutter to a close, breath hitching at the reminder, and he feels the sky.


	4. The Uneager And The Meager

"Why are you always so eager to please?" Sherlock asks him one day, seated on the floor with the solar system spread out before him. The laminated paper reflects the fluorescent light shining from the desk lamp adjusted above it. Warping planes of galaxies of shades mint green, black and mango to pale pinks and sultry purples-small stars, and white specks littered around it. The poster was almost as large as Sherlock when he spread it from its stored roll and duck-taped the corners to the ground. He didn't even bother cleaning up, just shoved all of his work beneath his bed. At least John's side was spared.

Thinking Sherlock was being philosophical again, he answers in kind, hands still trifling through his laundry basket distractedly, he always folds his socks first. "Why are you always so eager to deny?"

"I'm not eager at all." Is Sherlock's uneager reply. "You on the other hand, seem to love and loathe playing the team's lapdog."

All right, that was a bit too on point for John's taste. So he snipes, aiming to discomfort and dissuade. "I appreciate the concern but it's all consented."

Apparently, Sherlock, presumptuous as ever, could not take a hint. But he could take a challenge. "Stockholm syndrome."

And he sounds so sure of it, John could punch him. But he doesn't, because Sherlock isn't human, therefore he doesn't eat or sleep. And John didn't want to quicken his demise. Because that would be rude. Especially when he's attempting to do the exact opposite. Because Sherlock was John's friend, whether he knew it or not. And friends didn't kill friends.

"No," He announces patiently, exclusive training was going so well. Always unexpected, just what he did and didn't need. "it's called 'teamwork'." The miffed correction was made as John folded another sweater, his back still turned to Holmes. "Not that you'd know anything other than its definition."

"You underestimate Oxford." Sherlock grounds out, sounding irritable. "But yes, and I'd know that teamwork requires _said team_ to act as a _whole._ Not making the newbie play rag boy after five hour's practice and never lending him a hit."

John sighs at the words. He didn't really care all that much, coach has been whipping them into shape ever since he caught wind of their immature pattern, at least he still had Mike. But he still gets the least throws, which can be stifling. "What wrong with staying on someone's good side?" John asks, annoyed. Maybe _he_ was getting too philosophical. "Ah, you would know wouldn't you?"

"Vividly." Sherlock bites out, glare downturned and aimed at the paper sun before John considers taking it back. "But fine, if you're so desperate to stay on their _good side_ , that's where you'll stay. Enjoy."

John pauses placing his shark socks aside, frowning for a moment. Sherlock's sudden concern was unexpected. So could you blame him for being a tad surprised? Sherlock was the very pinnacle of apathy and sass.

"Why are you so concerned anyways?" John accuses gruffly and turns around, trying and succeeding in keeping up the tense atmosphere surrounding their domestic argument. It was sweet, that he cared.

"If bored and concerned are one and the same," Sherlock says, tone as dry as the smoke he exhales. "your dear mother's got nothing on me." The moment's gone as quick as it came, and then Sherlock's pointedly flicking ash to his right. Gesturing to a pile of newspaper and such, a letter signed in his mother's cursive sits atop the foot-tall pile. "You got a letter today."

Heedless of Sherlock's snooping for the time being, he stares at the mussed head as cigarette smoke floats above it. Shocked, and quickly appalled. "Are you smoking?!"

"No." Sherlock says simply, promptly taking another puff. Despite the fact he'd just taken one not a moment circa sass.

Horrified, and mind racing with any and all smoking health hazards. Doctor John snatches the cigarette from Sherlock's disconcertingly mature, flapper-poised fingers. "Are you insane?" John repeats, because the questions were _one and the same,_ and holds the popular poison above the boy's head. Praying he wouldn't stand up.

Sherlock doesn't, just stays sitting before the poster, criss-cross-apple-sauce like the _child_ he _is_. "Why would you need to smoke anyways?" John asks indignantly. Maybe a little concerned for his mentality, because Sherlock was only _sixteen._ And suddenly breaking the damned thing in half. Tobacco gets under his fingernails and he can't wipe it off on his sweater because a _teacher will notice_ and they'll get in _trouble_. And now the room _reeks._

Sherlock throws his arms up, "Because I'm still breathing!" before bringing them back down and clenching them into frustrated claws, and thrusts them down at the poster. "Why can't Pluto be a planet too?! Because it resides on Kuiper's belt?! Because it was discovered _recently_?! 1930 is not recent! Oh, I know, because it possesses less mass than what you deem fit to house your fat arse?!"

John blinks down at him, a little peeved at the outburst. Watching the vehement bean-pole slouch in defeat and slide a hand down his face. Pinching the bridge of his nose, Sherlock then mutters. "My apologies John. This must be terribly ironic to your rugby alienation."

Conceal, don't feel, don't kill the bloke. John takes a steadying breath and focuses on his exercise.

 _Step one, focus on patient's strong points, other than them being a patient you must tend to accordingly or you get fired._

John takes in the messy curls, hardly ever brushed as far as John's aware, the slender form hunched in a petulant slouch, soft sweatshirts, all comically contrastive to the eloquence the boy's tongue articulated and wonders his mind conducted.

 _Step two, understanding._ And comes to realize then, that try as Sherlock might, he really was just a child at heart. John knows the feeling well, wants to be an adult today, then a child tomorrow. Still feels it sometimes

He rubs the tobacco between his fingers with a grimace. John doesn't know what's driven him to such lengths to relax, and it most certainly wasn't Pluto. Couldn't be. Nor academics, Sherlock simply excelled. He'd even done extra the extra homework his professor had given him as punishment for interrupting—correcting- his class, to spite him. Sherlock had later arrived, kicking in the door in, lanky arms piled high with Physiology 2 textbooks and two chocolate bars. John had rushed to him, later scolding him for trying to commit suicide by performing a self-inflicted Crushing execution. John blames his overbearing concern on the fact that he'd learned about the execution type earlier that day in history class. Elephants were scary.

But he understood. Sherlock may not be aware- even think he's above it all—but it adds up. Subconsciously even. And the revelation is going to hurt when it becomes too hard to ignore. John refuses to let that happen to him. Not while he's here.

His loyalty was so easily won over by some sarcastic, presumptuous brat. John sighs in the real. He's too soft. "I hate you." John says and shakes his head fondly, obviously lighthearted.

But Sherlock's shoulders stiffen all the same. "Uh," And John rushes to correct himself before he's even aware he is. "Not literally of course," John chuckles at the possibility for good measure. "you're my friend." John announces in earnest, finding the intensity of the statement a little embarrassing. But true, very true indeed. He wouldn't have had any other roommate if he could-as he's grown rather fond of the boy's lively nature and contrastive Pandora's Box complex. John was simply careless of the way those aware of his rooming arrangement avoided him. All the better to avoid them. Not that he was completely alienated, he met his kind few.

And if anything, John was glad to be here for Sherlock. Make sure he's all right. Sherlock's casual disengagement made John uneasy, he's been wary ever since the monkey-bar incident. It was kind of…terrifying. To call for help and see people, people who run just like you, breath just like you, see just like you. Let you suffer. And Sherlock's aloof acceptance only made it worse.

Sherlock lets out a breathy 'oh'. The sound soft and shocked. It strikes a cord in John, and he grinds the cigarette to gritty bits at the implications of it.

"Is...is that so?" Sherlock inquires, a voice sounding small. An utter opposition to the infuriatingly aloof and intimidatingly intelligent boy he's come to know.

John swallows at the sudden vulnerability. The odds weren't against him, no. John wouldn't hurt him, probably couldn't if he tried, not like this. But it was worrying. The intensity of the moment, the very possibility of him being someone else. How easily John could hurt him, take any notion of a friend away. But relief floods him like a tidal wave. Because he is him.

"Of course. Aren't you supposed to be AP?" John grins off the fervor, dropping the cigarette to the floor and crushing its already tattered remains beneath his sneaker. Nose twitching at the smell while Sherlock cocks his head back to peer up at him. John glares at Sherlock when he finishes, no heat in the gaze this time, not right now, making Sherlock raise an eyebrow. And digs a hand into the back of the curly mop, ruffling it harder at the noise of quiet surprise he got. "If I catch you smoking again I'll steal your new biochemistry textbook."

Sherlock scoffs and shakes off John's hand, leaning away when the rough affection doesn't cease. Leaving his hair in a disastrous flurry. John snickers when an image of a disgruntled poodle pops up, checking the alarm clock on his desktop out of habit. And swivels on his heel to go grab his wallet.

"Hungry? It's almost lunch in the cafeteria." John questions, waving his wallet for emphasis. Still forcing casual just a bit. "My treat."

Still patting his poofed head down, Sherlock turns away and replies. "Not hungry."

"You didn't get a meal plan?—don't look at me like that." John reprimands, exasperated at Sherlock's indignant swivel. As if the very prospect of pursuing a healthy regimen was blasphemy. "Jesus do you even eat? I think I saw you eat a chocolate bar once." John recalls the epidemic and raises an eyebrow at Sherlock's back.

"You must have been hallucinating, I'm a chlorophyll, I absorb sunlight."

"You don't even go outside." And it's true, John even asked if he was a vampire once, making Sherlock squint at him and ask if John was actually a dwarf. Sherlock's only answer was a rather brutal pillow to the face.

"I put a flashlight in an empty milk carton." Sherlock waves him off, sounding dead serious.

"That doesn't even—What are you?—" A sigh. "You know what? I'll just bring you something."

"Waste of money, and people will judge you for purchasing an extra helping." Sherlock quips, attempting to invoke a sense of diffidence.

It was laughable. "I'm an athlete. I eat, like, four trays. What's the shame in one more?" John defends, amused and re-lacing up his shoe. If there was one thing he wasn't ashamed of, it was his appetite. He needed his nutrients, lest he faint before a touchdown. Scary, that.

Sherlock slumps. "Waste of money." It sounds like a question.

Cute. John rolls his eyes when he reaches the door and tosses back a, "I'll be right back." locking the door behind him.

Well, off to deafening, static chaos to prevent his friend from starving to death. An eardrum-sacrificial endeavor John Watson has bravely undertaken. John thrusts his hand forward, imitating a knight hailing his mighty sword, the theatrical motion goes unseen in the abandoned corridor. The guys directing Camelot's play this year would preen at his form _. Now! To battle!_

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"This," Sherlock says, poking at his instant ramen cup with a plastic spork. "is why I can't go to jail."

"It was the lightest thing I could find," _Apart from soup crackers_ , John doesn't add, lest Sherlock ask for those instead, and takes another bite of his PB and J. Glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye when he chews and swallows. "you hardly use your stomach so I didn't want to give it too much to digest. Don't be picky." He chastises the pickiest bird he's ever had the worrying fortune of knowing.

"I'm not picky, I just require some simple comme ci, comme ça." Sherlock murmurs the strange word—sounds French-, slightly pouting and scrawls something or other onto his red binder. His galactic poster has already been rolled up and stuffed beneath the nearby splintered, ratty stool. "Would it kill them to have a _little_ etiquette?"

"No," John disagrees, looking down at his crumbling sandwich, then flicks a gnat off the soppy bread. "But it'll kill us in the mean time."

"Can't wait." Sherlock sighs tiredly and rises from the floor, grabbing his hieroglyphic binder as he goes. And drops his ramen into the cylinder metal garbage can after pushing the bottom lever down with his toe, causing the cover to flip open to accept his unwanted jail-food. "I'm off."

John squashes down the immediate the urge to accompany him. Because that's unnecessary and Sherlock doesn't take well to hovering. Telling from the near-shouting match he'd overheard Sherlock having on the phone with his overweight-as-he-is-overbearing older brother. Couldn't have been a boyfriend given all the sarcastic 'brother's' and 'brother-dear's'.

Instead, John settles for "Where to?" Just to know where to find him if he's not back by dark. Not overprotective, but rational. Because most scoff, sneer, or turn the other way when they're made aware of his dorm arrangement. And he's aware of how sketchy the situation is. John has looked into rumors, from this he's learned that the Holmes name isn't cursed, no one's been murdered or brutally beaten by anyone who holds it, Sherlock is not discriminated against for his sexuality or they aren't aware—which was a minute relief.

Sherlock was merely some creepy psychic or stalker who knew everything about anyone. The negative feedback shocked John for a second, because the object of their ire was so…brilliant. Otherworldly in a way, but couldn't they see past their initial alarm? The assumptions made sense, but once they saw the method to the invasion of privacy it was actually pretty cool.

"To see a man about a—" Sherlock shuts his mouth with a small click, cutting himself off mid-seventh vowel. Oh dear.

"That dastardly butterfly effect." John blows out a sudden breath, making a quiet 'whoosh'. "Can't have that happen again now can we?"

"And while statistic rules the odd happenstance _horrendously_ improbable, I am taking no chances." Sherlock hisses down at his zipper as he recommences pulling it to a close, coming to a stand at the door.

"Speaking of 'odd'- or should I say ODD- when do you think you'll be back?" John prompts casually, still curious. Turns back to his laptop, and absent-mindedly types in the process wherein psoriasis commonly causes cardiovascular disease and diabetes—and how it attributes _system-wide inflammation_. "Eugh. Immunodeficiency's a bitch." John grumbles to himself.

"Oh, you're a clever one." Is Sherlock's sarcastic murmur to his Oppositional Defiance Disorder reference, John hears him slide his binder off the stool and under his arm. The creaking thing only serves as a coat rack by the door, for it couldn't take the weight of anything more. John conducted the experiment himself, and went to use it, ultimately landing on his ass-the broken thing creaked before a leg gave out and sent him sprawling to the left. A giggling Sherlock had been his only compensation for the failure. Still worth it.

"But I suppose it depends on the line at Tesco's. Customers are relatively sparse on Wednesday's." Sherlock's voice breaks his stupor.

John ceases typing at the force of his relief, and sighs. Okay, this was getting silly. The school's hostility was pretty new to him though, so John rolls with it. And lets the relief flow. Sherlock wouldn't be roaming the spiting halls, just a quick stop at their local grocery store. In and out. Simple. Safe. No reason for to have a sexuality crisis.

"Want anything?"

John blinks at the offer. "What?"

"W. A. N. T A. N. Y. T-" Sherlock starts, patient per usual.

"—yeah, yeah I'll take an energy drink." John grounds out, glaring at the 300 out of 1000 word essay due by tomorrow afternoon. "ta."

Sherlock makes a quiet sound of repulsion, a sardonic "ta ta.", and slips out the door. Leaving John to his endless, digital devices and inevitable myopia.

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It's dark when he returns to hell—Birkbeck. The sky a blackish hue of dark blues. Stars glitter down at him mockingly and he feels anger spike for Pluto. And the university's out-of-date academics. They must have dated back before 2006 at least. That's when Pluto was officially acknowledged as what it truly _was_. He would do the same, despite his probable mark because teachers were too lazy to look into fact.

He shifts the plastic bag in his hand, the papery plastic digging into his palm discomforting, and opens the glass doors housing the empty main lobby (Mrs. Hudson must have gotten off early). Set on stuffing his Mexican (and flammable, unlike pussy-footing American Crayola) crayons, an extra binder, and his emergency Marlboro's into his parcel locker. Then extending his essay to delineate Milkomeda's predicted affair and ignoring his food until John asks if he can have it.

Sherlock enters the Masterlock's code, 314159, chuckling quietly. And sets his plastic bag down. Leans forward to trifle through his rather messy locker, the files held in the cheap Manilla folders he borrowed from the main office keep slipping out, what a pain. He pushes aside another folder, pressing it against the steel inner wall, and searches with his left hand. The clutter now out of his way, and comes up with his research on mammal heme biosynthetic pathway and their mitochondrial and cytosolic enzymes, and disease brought on by inherited mutation and environmental factor. Labeled: Student Corporeality. Mandatory, no. Immature, yes.

Just then, he hears snickering and then a body slam against metal. And moaning. Loud, intentionally-whorish moaning a mere three feet from his locker. At least his door blocked them from view. "Oh," The squeaky voice suddenly mewls. "you're so big." The male growls pretentiously at the praise, the sound like that of a feral weasel's and seemingly into the girl's neck. "So big, baby."

Sherlock barely smothers a guffaw, and settles for clearing his throat before it sounded like something else. "Excuse me." He makes his presence known politely and reaches down to gather his bag. "And might I advise you conceal your-ah coitus? Patrol will be performing their nightly rounds earlier today due to rumored drug dealings." It was true too. Nothing heavy was dealt, only cannabis. Couldn't stand the stuff, it slowed people down and made them talk too much. Never a good combination.

The girl whines a bit as the male removes himself from her pliant grasp. He chuckles. "Well, well, well, if it isn't _Sherlock Holmes_." The male voices in mock-cheer, arms probably gesturing the 'spectacle' to thin air.

Sherlock's eyes narrow on the vented metal in front of him, still crouched, bag in hand. And frowns at the tone. Anderson. Slurred speech. Mewling whore easily left to nothing, the girl, Sally, if he recalls the similar moans near nightly hours, is a prize around here. As she's popularly known as the Good Girl. Theatrically contrastive to the university's Woman, they'd taken to shagging her as Irene was untouchable. By default, Sally was practically every guys wet dream, hell knows why. Sneaking from her ward when patrol switches shifts, a smart one she is. So Anderson must be feeling on top of the world. Is intoxicated. Brilliant, another stumbling fool.

A shadow shades him from the flickering fluorescent light above. Sherlock peers up to see the man leaning against the locker next to his, his arm pushing the door completely open to use it as a wall. Eyes bloodshot and cheeks flushed. Inebriated indefinitely. And sighs, he really hates it when he's right. Sometimes. Sherlock frowns and rises to his full height, which wasn't to its peak yet and allowed Anderson a few inches on him.

Anderson grins, face contorted in an amused sneer. As if Sherlock's very existence were laughable. And says, "So sorry to bother you, just getting some pussy, all right?" not sounding sorry in the slightest, the boast as clear as the opportunistic haze that surrounded him. Sally just took him in, bored, before giving Anderson's backside a thorough look-over, still looking flustered as she shifts from foot to foot and leans against some poor sods locker.

Sherlock can't help the small, grossed-out sound that pushes its way up his throat this time, and steps a little to the left. To put some space between them—his breath really reeked- and casually reaches his hand into the plastic bag to pull out his new binder, slipping his Student Corporeality folder into it, then back into his bag. Might as well do it tonight. And tosses the cigarettes and crayons into his papery pool. The motion too quick for Anderson to identify the childish item or the tempting other.

Now he just needs to shut his locker. "I see." He acknowledges, and pointedly looks at the locker door, and back up at the fool. Raised brows and all. Anderson ignores his silent request, or maybe his vision's gone too blurred. "So you get some? Rumor has it you're a virgin."

Sherlock suppresses a scoff rather poorly. Such a rumor did not exist, nor would it ever. He was well known, but wasn't _that_ well known. Sherlock hardly came out, never attended an event, joined a club. Submerged, just under the radar. A muted dot signaling an abandoned submarine. Mmm, too far. He vocalizes a polite "That's none of your concern." And it wasn't, nor would it ever would be.

Anderson just 'mmm's and crosses his arms, still leant against his locker. "Yeah, I see how it is," He nods and looks away for sport before he turns back to Sherlock, eyes crinkled mockingly. And Sherlock wants to know what 'it' is.

"You're young and inexperienced so you don't know what you're missing." Is Anderson's intellectual surmising, his drunken laugh sprays spit. "Sherlock the wide-eyed virgin!" He curtly crows on a slur, arms uncrossing to curl around his aching midsection. It's not fuzzy, Sherlock find himself noting in annoyance. And dear god, why couldn't people just leave his sex life be? It's none of their sodding business! Why was it even socially acceptable to just-up and ask about a stranger's dick? Wasn't he supposed to be the gay one?!

"yeah," Sherlock finds himself agreeing, eye twitching at the bumbling moron as he struggles to find the floor. "because we all know the more you shag, the bigger your dick gets and the smaller your eyes grow," Sherlock shrugs in heated resignation, glaring down at the still-hunched figure from his peripherals. "until you can't see what you're shagging anymore. Be it your mother or a dog. You'll never know." Sherlock clenches his fists and hears them cackle and nods side-ways to Whore. "Take you and Sally for example, her tits have grown the size of two ripe boars. Can't even see the cow rutting against her leg, what a shame." He scoffs and goes to get his takeout.

Turns out Anderson wasn't as inebriated as he'd first assumed. And fully capable of fisting the front of his sweatshirt, lifting him up, and slamming his back into the metal lockers with a resounding clatter. It happens in a second, and it takes less than that to register the knuckles pressing into his collar bones, the sure grip on his shirt's material holding him there like a dog. And suddenly wants him to John instead. Because John wouldn't hurt him. He would coax Sherlock into being Sherlock, his hold gentle and face kind. Well, if threatening to sit on him could be classified as affection. And John was also curious. Not feral, face lined in deepening resentment, menacing. Threat. Enemy. Oh this'll be fun.

"Watch it punk." Anderson's occluding breath washes over his face, he wants to gag. Waking him from his initial surprise, as Anderson had never touched him before. But he brings up his hands to push at Anderson's all the same, they were wrinkling his shirt too. Damn it, if Anderson ripped it he might just bite him. At least he didn't link Sherlock to his Twix bar exploding in his face at lunch yesterday.

"Let go immediately."

"Or what?" Is his cliché commandeer of peer pressure.

"Or you can bid your father's dream job good day." Anderson, your typical dream achieving sloth, leaping to bounds off his father's fortune. An heir was necessary and Sherlock pities their company. "Surely Greg wouldn't mind catching wind of your hobby." And Sherlock hardly remembers the headmaster's name, but he does now. This was not good.

"Says the guy shagging Adler."

Oh, had the rumor already gotten out? This was hysterical. And the threat so absurd. Greg had already been made aware of his sexuality, either by observation (he was ex-DI after all) or by Mycroft. So he'd know Anderson was lying right off the bat. He even asked Sherlock to keep the preference he never put out for a secret. Looking ashamed of his school's reputation all the while. Which is exactly why Sherlock says this instead.

"She's my cousin." A classic. The silent 'you're sick' is loud and affronted.

The sneer leans closer until Sherlock can taste its breath. "Then maybe I can just make sure you never open that little mouth again." Sherlock knows he wouldn't. _Knows_ there was too much on the line for him. But in this moment, he _knows_ and he _feels_ his stomach clench in fear. And somehow, that's even worse. _And_ it's also the only thing keeping him from asking Anderson if his mouth was pretty as well as little. If you were going to use cliche movie-lines to threaten people you might as well do it right. "Can't tattle with no teeth."

"Philip, that's enough." Sally finally says, sounding a bit off. Sherlock doesn't turn to her. And then—for reasons relating to the utter imbecility of his infantile months—he says, "I can still write, you moron."

Anderson smiles. And releases his left hand's grip to reach down for Sherlock's right hand, his right hand still keeping Sherlock pinned. Sherlock damns the sharp gasp he emits when Anderson clenches his fingers in a constricting grip. Immediately trying to wriggle out of the steadily tightening grasp, Sherlock hisses lowly and pushes at Anderson's broader chest. Panic clouds his mind for a moment and he thinks Anderson's grip on his hand would never stop, couldn't. He cuts that thought off the moment it rears.

"That's enough Phil," Sally says again, sounding reasonably fearful for herself now. "He's getting loud." And that just makes Sherlock want to laugh and laugh and _laugh_ for reasons he's unwilling to look into. Reasons unnecessary to know. He hadn't even noticed his vocal pain and isn't that just the icing on the restraining order?

But he can't express his hysteria, even if he wants to. Because a clammy palm prevents such a ridiculous action. Forcing his head against cold steel with a bruising clasp that seizes his jaw. And Sherlock would rather die than open his mouth and risk tasting something so putrid, much less to bite him. The fingers gripping his jaw tighten and Sherlock can't fight his mounting terror this time. It had been an unnerving, muted buzz before. And it was now a deafening swarm. Sherlock pushes him harder, stronger, still weaker. Anderson pushes him back thrice his force and lifts his shirt up to his chin.

"Which first?" Anderson fixes his blurry gaze on his, his lip a disdainful curl, his voice breaks the buzz. And squeezes Sherlock's dying fingers and face hard. "Teeth or fingers?"

His chest seizes and he suddenly feels nauseous, he's stuck for a second. Then, for the first time in a long time. Sherlock wants scream. He wants to wail, beat his knuckles bloody on brick, scratch himself up, bite his arms. He wants to hurt because _he's_ in control. He wants to hurt because it's _bad_. He wants _to hurt_ because he _shouldn't want_ _to_.

"What's wrong?" Anderson mocks care, and Sherlock wants to spit on him. Show him a real sneer. A real animal. Sherlock knows he could, it's guttural roars pound his core. But he's weak here, and his chest still encases the rage in aggrieved ice. Leaving him cold and flinching. "Gonna cry?"

He'd rather die screaming than grant this repugnant scum the mere micro satisfaction. And yet. He briefly recalls when he was a child, when he calloused himself by refusing to cry over menial happenstance. As most children his age had. It worked for a while, and achieved in his teachers assuming he was psychotic.

Though the practice was now proving futile as his chest shook and vision blurred. " _fsshk_!" He curses behind the palm when a tear breaks past. And tries to rip his fingers from the bone-creaking clasp, he didn't care if they broke. He didn't. He wishes his friend was here, he would help. Maybe Grain, Irene would swivel her hips and threaten to sue their pants off, maybe take Sally out to dinner after. He needed _to go_. He needed to go _right now, right no_ —

"Hey! Stop that!" A flashlight illuminates them from down the corridor to his right. It's blinding and just what he needs. The sweaty hand releases his mouth. Sherlock lets his jaw flex as he sinks down the chilled locker and onto the hard floor. He didn't have legs, maybe give them a break. He hears a light scuffle and muffled curses to his left, and refuses to turn and view their stumbling, predicted flee. Dress shoes pattering the pristine tile grow in volume to his right.

Sherlock slouches, his rubber soles keeping his legs half bent while he breathes without restraint. He breathes in again. And again. Another inhale, another exhale. Another. He chokes on it. He tries one more time. But it _wasn't working,_ why wasn't it _working?_

"Son," A voice pants above him, overweight from ten too many frozen meals and Oprah marathons. " you alright?"

"Fuck off." It's breathless and harsh, numb. What he needs it to be. So he says it again. And again. And again. And again. It's unoriginal but he doesn't care, he gets a turn too. He deserves it, he's going through a very intense chemical imbalance, teenager get-out-of-jail card by default. He chokes the curse out until the man just leaves, until he can't get a word in, until Sherlock can't hear his divorce anymore.

 _I need a cigarette_. Sherlock thinks as he presses his hands to the floor to lift himself. Reaching up on shaky legs, leant against the biting metal for leverage. Sherlock crumples from the unease twisting his innards in immobilizing pain. It's shameful, it's mortifying, it's ridiculous. He's weaker than he knew. Sherlock can't get up and off his knees, the harsh floor bruises them but he can't move. It's infinitely frustrating. He wants to shout at himself, will himself into submission. But the ice in his chest is crippling, it turns his stomach and scathes the inside of his ribcage. Sherlock can hardly breath anyways, perhaps a break would do him well. John would be upset too.

So he sinks back down, back to locker and shaking legs splayed, stays there, and pretends it's actually smoke. The gelid wracks really soothing nicotine.

Nor will a single tear fall, this would make for great practice. Would be a waste, such an opportunity didn't rear its repulsive head everyday. And Sherlock's always loved a good challenge.

(The first one didn't count. It didn't.)

And if his whimpers are overheard. Well, let's just say he admires those who ignore.


	5. The Beginning Of The End

John races down another corridor, pace brisk and nerves on edge. He'd gotten caught up in his stupid essay, only after finishing it and reaching his arms over his head to stretch his stiff back had he noticed the dark hour. Immediately regretting not trading numbers with Sherlock until he noticed the shiny device plugged into the wall and rested on a jar. Jar test or something, that's what Sherlock said.

So here he is, running around like some lost puppy with separation anxiety. When, for all he knew, Sherlock could have just decided to take the long way back, maybe a walk in the park, perhaps gone to see a friend.

 _Yeah, right._ He wants to drone to no one, it may have been rude but it was honest. Sherlock absolutely loathes the cold, loathes any exercise of the sort, and has no friends. If the way Sherlock reacted to his friendship like a virgin being proposed to was anything to go by. Ergo, something's probably wrong and John's gonna find out what. If there isn't and Sherlock just frowns at him, asking why he's bothering him? Well, he's just another hen.

A boy stumbles around a far corner and John almost says Sherlock's name. Almost. The boy's too tall, too straight judging by the equally inebriated girl hanging off his arm. John turns away before he notices how rushed they look. Strange, when he squints past the shadows encasing the stairway they rush to climb. John can make out Anderson's rat-like features. He wants to stop them, because women weren't allowed after hours and without visitor's pass. This could hurt the team even.

With a silent sigh, he relents. John had more important matters at hand. And the sight before him has only aided his unease. John rushes down the way they came, with nowhere better in mind anyways. Not accusing, not saying his teammate was a bully.

The corridor is quiet, deserted and cold. It chills his hands and cheeks but that's all, he slipped on a sweater and a jacket beforehand. Actually warm compared to the paper-thin sweatshirt Sherlock usually wore. The idiot. John passes by the cement stairs without word, forward. And comes to a stand, the beginning of the hall where uni students had fluttered through not a few hours before now empty. The ceiling sports a dull, stained and flickering row of fluorescent LED bar lights, around four or six feet of space separating them and casting shadows in each space. Dark splotches of shade are only faintly alight from headlights red, blue and orange that dance across the eerie areas. Gleaming through the vast hallway windows. It felt wrong. Unwelcome. Forbidding. Similar in definition to a word he'd learnt in English class. Kenopsia?

But there, beneath an open locker door as it lightly swings from left to right in mind-numbingly slow tilts from an unknown force, he sees a hunching figure. Only when it's illuminated in bright red headlighting does John rush down the hall. A mere 12 yards, footsteps quiet and steadily conflicted. Was he all right? Why was he cradling his head? Was he hurt? There was no blood but that meant nothing. Why was his posture so loose? Was that a good thing? Heavy breathing. Panting, had he out-run someone?

John walks up to the figure quietly, as to not startle yet make his presence known. He wasn't granted a twitch and stands in front of him, his body shadowing Sherlock's still form from the minute, blinding red glare.

"Sherlock?" He voices the name quietly, all his worry somehow voiced in two mere vowels. Nothing, Sherlock continues his quiet, labored breathing. John says it again, fighting the urge to touch him instead.

The curly mop abruptly snaps up and slams against the metal behind it. John jumps at the clatter. While Sherlock keeps his head tipped back, long sternocleidomastoid muscles stretched just beneath pale skin, and laughs. Grin gaudy and teeth tine. Breathy, hollow, Sherlock laughs it for a while until John wants to shake him. Then he dies down and takes a deep breath through his nose, eyes shut tight. Opposing from their previously crinkled, half-shut state. The abrupt amusement gone as quick as it came.

"I'm all right. Just give me a moment." Sherlock says in that stubborn tone that made his eye and mouth twitch. Shoulders high and head low now, John can count the knobs in his cervical vertebrae.

Yeah, you just went Batman's Joker on me and you expect me to think you're _all right_? John would have laughed with him if Sherlock were still laughing himself.

"No you're not." John says after a _moment_ , staring the top of Sherlock's head down. Patient no matter his urge to help Sherlock breath.

Sherlock chokes on a small whine and John grimaces at the unseemliness of it. Still looking down, always looking down, he hadn't looked John in the eye since he'd told Sherlock he was his friend.

At a bit of a loss now, John asks. "Do you want to talk about it?" Which was quite simply one of the stupidest things John could ever recall saying.

Sherlock's breath hitches strangely, making John think he was going to start laughing again.

Sneakers squeak against the tacky tile as Sherlock quickly pulls his legs into his chest and hides his face behind his knees. Letting out a sound that shocks John where he stands. It's strangled and almost reluctant. Wet, and out of breath. John blinks down at the tightly fetal-positioned figure stupidly for a second. Unsure if he'd heard what he just heard.

Two more confirm his suspicions, and John doesn't know what to do. Because Sherlock, the precocious silver-tongue, the brat who possessed stoicism all men envied, who asked when the funeral was when his coach's baby was announced a stillborn, was _sobbing_. John shouldn't be so surprised, he shouldn't be. But he still has no idea what the fuck managed to distress this clinical _god_. And John's mind wasn't exactly being PG-bully-documentary anymore.

 _"Fuck._ " The stuffy curse echoes, Sherlock's form managing to curl tighter into itself. And John wonders if Sherlock will ever look at him again. "Just give me a mome—" The sentence is cut off by a hiccupping sob, the gasp catching 'e'. The unfamiliarity of it is painful to hear.

"Just—" John clenches his fists until nails bite into his life-lines. " _Please._ "

Something finally caves at the unexpected plea, and it hurts. John feels water spring to his eyes, and crinkles his stinging nose to hold it back. Sherlock….Sherlock is not—this. He's not. It's so wrong and he wants Sherlock back, John wants his arrogant and clever blasé back. But he does not voice this. It's selfish. _He_ was supposed to be the calm one here, the composed one, the patient doctor and tending to his hysterical patient. Doctors can't function on fear, the results can be life-threatening.

But he's already on his knees. Pulling the bony frame into his warmer, larger one the second the plea is whimpered—holding him in an all-or-nothing embrace. John isn't surprised by his reaction in the slightest, he's always known he was a loyal, bloody-minded dog. Sherlock was no exception, he was worse. Far worse.

Sherlock stiffens a little and pushes at his chest, still weak from whatever he's just experienced or weak in comparison to John's anxious embrace. It only tightens at the resistance. John doesn't know what would happen if he let go. John is afraid.

John feels a hand press against his left pectoral, but it's even weaker than the first. " _John please_ —"

"Sorry, little busy right now." His casual rush of awkward is so disproportionate from Sherlock's apparent tragedy John wants to bash his head into the locker. But just stays on his knees leaning over him and cuddling the reluctant pole.

And then Sherlock just…freezes, before a rather violent sob wracks his frame, sounded a bit like a half-laugh too. And then he's shaking so badly John wants to ask if he's still cold. Still cold from his near-death encounter with heinous classmates, bipolar dogs and playground equipment. John doesn't because it's stupid, just props his chin on Sherlock's shoulder and pulls him in by his bony shoulders-and rubs his palm up and down Sherlock's back, counting the spinal knobs he can feel as he goes. Possibly transfer some heat if Sherlock really is cold. Sherlock was a lot smaller when he wasn't puffing out his chest like some high and mighty peacock. He hadn't seen Sherlock so small since he was dying, and wasn't _that_ a thought right there.

It's almost painful to refrain from grabbing Sherlock by his forearms, shaking him, and asking him _who the fuck_ did this. How they managed to hurt _Sherlock_ of all people. Just so he can find them and shove a cacti-trophy for distressing this sophisticated egghead of a hellion up their tight arse.

But the force of Sherlock's sobs wrack his own chest, possibly equating the turmoil. And John has to take it all, every choke, every worryingly deep heave. Take it all, even as reflected neon street light swims in the liquid pooling his tear-ducts. He doesn't blink either, for some stupid reason involving masochism and an attempt to relate to Sherlock's pain, let them sting more than they already do. And finds a comfort of his own in Sherlock's weak grasp on his leather jumper, the mussed mop seeking solace in _his_ shoulder, and the tears wetting his faker-sweater.

They stay there for a while. And John doesn't think about how Sherlock's body and warmth held so closely to his feels better than the blanket his mother made for him after Sherlock used it.


End file.
